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Poetry by Evan Byington

Piece 37: Goodbye, Security Deposit.

. Blood drips aimlessly from the gash in my skull.
. Seeping slowly, in a sluggish attempt to meet the tufts of polypropylene.
. Moments ago fighting, racing through my venae cavae
. In an ever present demand to be reoxygenated, to repeat the constant cycle.
. Sadly, the cycle interrupted with the crashing force of gravity.

. The corner of the table sits still, crimson droplets splatter its surface.
. It drips slowly into the carpet.
. [God, that is going to cost a fortune to remove.]
. Another liquid melds with the coarse fibers,
. My mouth is agape and drool leaks from the corner.
. A blackness settles slowly into the edges of my vision.
. Steadily pulsing, closing inwards.
. In the distance a faint voice calls out, or was it a scream?
. I’m past the point of caring.

. A shadow looms over, too late, the muscles have grown rigid.
.She yells something at my face, and I’m oblivious to what she is trying to tell me.
. […I think a steam cleaner is about forty dollars for a day…]
. “What going on? What have you done? Oh my god, he’s gone?”
. Something like that, I can’t be sure. The sound, muffled and distant.
.They come in, two men clad in white, and jam their cold hands beneath me.
.They raise me onto a board and place a white cloth over me.
.Before the white becomes all encompassing, my head falls to the side.
. I see the carmine Pollock I left in the carpet in its entirety for the first time.
. Fuck, that is never coming out.